*WHOOOOSH!*
Black miasma erupted from Number 7's raised hand.
Not flowing. Not spreading.
Detonating outward in waves that moved with predatory intelligence, dark tendrils seeking warm bodies with the kind of efficiency that suggested they'd done this before and gotten really good at it.
The corruption hit civilians first.
Mothers shielding children. Elderly followers caught mid-prayer. Young couples who'd thought divine protection meant something concrete rather than a polite suggestion reality could ignore when convenient.
*CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.*
Their bodies convulsed.
Spines arching at angles that made observers' stomachs twist sympathetically, skin splitting as something underneath decided the original architecture was inadequate for current needs.
Screams cut off mid-note.
